Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“Cassian?” Jet asks, he’s on his feet, alert.
I turn to him. “How the hell did Michael Moretti get his hands on eight-million-dollars? Tell me, Jet. How the fuck did he get the money?”
I don’t wait for him to respond. As far as I know, he could be behind it. He could have given that money to Michael Moretti. Either way, I need to stop Michael. I need to get to Allegra.
“You’re with me!” I call out to the two soldiers who replaced the two who took Jet’s bribe. We rush to the elevator, lean on the button to call it, but it’s on the third floor. “Fuck! Let’s go.”
I run down the hall to the stairs, the two on my heels, Jet behind them. The stairs echo, a storm of boots charging. By the time I’m in the garage, I’m out of breath, we all are.
“I’ll get the SUV,” a soldier calls out.
I hurry to the Ferrari, unlock it. “Head back to the house. Do not let them take Allegra. Whatever you have to do, do not let them take her!” I slam my door closed as I start the engine and just see Jet as I speed out of the underground garage, tires screaming as I shift gears and take the turns up, up and finally out. The car leaps when I floor the gas pedal and car horns blare as I swerve into traffic and speed around the cars slowing at a yellow light. I glimpse the SUVs in the rear view mirror just as I turn onto the on ramp of the highway, scrolling for Enzo’s contact on my phone as I put the pedal to the metal and take the car to its top speed, pushing the button to call Enzo, to warn him, the sinking feeling of dread settling deep in my gut when he doesn’t answer, not the first time, not the second. Not the third.
26
ALLEGRA
Ihate him. I fucking hate Cassian Trevino.
And I hate myself for the fucking stupid tears I’m trying to hide from the soldiers sitting on either side of me, from Enzo in the passenger seat and the driver.
Four soldiers.
Four huge, armed men to take me back to the house, like there was any chance I might escape this car. Like he thought maybe I’d leap over one of their laps and somehow get the door, that automatically locked as soon as the engine started, opened and leap to my death on the fucking highway.
I hate Cassian Trevino with all my heart.
The highway is busy in both directions, fully stopped heading into Atlantic City, but we’re moving at a snail’s pace here, too. I’m not sure it matters. I’m either going to be locked in here or cuffed to Cassian’s bed until he gets there and then what? What’s he going to do to me then? Either way, I lose.
I close my eyes, lean my head back and press the heels of my hands into them.
Shit. I should have told him about the phone. He’d have let me keep it. Why wouldn’t he have let me keep it? We were starting to trust each other at least a little. The drive to AC, the custard stop, I don’t know, all of it, me talking about my parents, him talking about his and telling me about Vivi, we were getting somewhere. Now I’m back to square one. A prisoner. Collateral.
“I’ll take the surface road,” the driver says.
“Stay on the highway,” Enzo orders, but the driver is already shifting lanes. “I said stay on the fucking highway,” Enzo commands.
Enzo takes out a gun, cocks it and points it to the driver’s temple.
I gasp. Am I fucking seeing this?
“I said we stay on the fucking highway,” Enzo repeats, tone low and deadly.
The driver doesn’t even blink or turn his head, though. What’s Enzo going to do, shoot the driver? He can’t. We’ll crash if he does.
But another gun is cocked before a split-second passes. It’s the soldier on my right and he’s holding the pistol to the back of Enzo’s skull.
I glimpse Enzo’s expression in the side mirror. He’s not going to put the weapon down. Shit. Is he really going to shoot the driver?
“Enzo, give me the weapon,” the man to my right says.
The driver has by now exited the highway and he’s driving down a surface road. The soldier to my left texts a message to someone and I get the feeling it’s not Cassian.
“I said give me the weapon, Enzo. I will kill you if I have to. Don’t make me have to.”
“Traitor,” Enzo says and draws his weapon from the driver’s temple. I think he’s going to give it to the man at my right. He reaches his arm to pass the weapon back. The man to my right lowers his pistol. The instant he does, Enzo shifts his grip, aims using the side mirror and fires.